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MY DEAR NORTH, In the proposal you have of late so earnestly and frequently urged on me, that I should shape and parcel out my military recollections into articles for your Magazine, I really am at a loss to recognize either that felicity of tact, or soundness of judgment, by which you are usually distinguished. I remember in 1816, when our acquaintance first commenced, (it was at Gibraltar, on your return from the Levant,) that certain moving narrations of the accidents I had encountered by flood and field, did occasionally contribute, along with the Malaga and cigars, to relieve the monotony of the evenings in my barrack-room, when you condescended to become its guest. You were then obligingly tolerant of the poorness of your cheer, both mental and physical, at least politely quiescent when I assumed the dreaded, though acknowledged privilege of an old soldier, and

"Fought all my battles o'er again,

And thrice I slew the slain." You did more than this. You strongly recommended me to compend a regular and consecutive narrative of the more striking portions of my military ca-reer, from the confused chaos of maVOL. XIX.

terials I had laid before you, and assured me of your conviction, that the strong interest they had excited in you would not be unparticipated by the public.

My own indolence, and other causes not now necessary to notice, prevented my then following your advice. I did I did not write a book, though the time was certainly favourable for such an undertaking. The excitement produced by the war, and its glorious termination, had not yet passed away; Waterloo still rung in every ear; the allies were yet in Paris; Napoleon was scarcely chained to his rock; the voice of the reading public was for warwar not merely in the pride, pomp, and circumstance with which it is invested by the historian, but in those humbler aspects, and more minute details, which those alone who were themselves actors in the scene can supply. In these circumstances, the booksellers set at work their potent spells to evoke military spirits from the vasty deep. And who answered to the call? Why, James Simpson, and a few other tourists of equal calibre and capacity for the task. The Farce of Simpson & Co., however, was played with success, and had a run. And such was then the indiscriminate

A

voracity of the public, that works of this contemptible description were not only generally read, but, what is more important, generally sold, and, in the absence of all military writers of competent power and knowledge, succeeded to an extensive though short-lived popularity. But those times have pass ed away. This blind and inordinate craving of the public appetite has been followed, as might have been expected, by a surfeit. Simpson's Commentaries" De Bello Gallico" have been subjected to the Cæsarian operation, and gutted for the trunk-makers. Works of a higher and better character have already been supplied. Lord Burghersh has published his Campaigns; the author of "Recollections of the Peninsula,”* clad in his bright and glittering panoply, has started into the field; and your own Subaltern," approaching his task with the grace and brightness of a scholar and a gentleman, has exceedingly

"Graced his cause In speaking of himselfWhat is it then you require of me? I appeal to your cooler judgment, if it would be wise and prudent in me to follow in the wake of writers like these, to try a passage at arms with champions who have already shown such skill and address in the management of their weapons. It really does appear to me quite hopeless to expect that scenes which have already been delineated by the hand of a master should acquire any new interest from a few additional sketches from a dauber like myself.

But, in truth, 'my good North, how ever well they may be executed, the taste for such subjects is now considerably on the wane. No writer at this time of day can expect in his readers a sensitive participation in the perils of an out-picket, nor induce them, by any eloquence, to cherish fervent aspirations for the escape of a foraging party. They will regard with

apathy the most moving narrative of
the exploits of all regimental officers,
and have even not the smallest wish
for a nearer view of the vie privée of a
brigade major. In vain may Captain
Poker endeavour to stir up the blaze
of sympathy for neglected merit ; Ma-
jor Tongs, were his exploits told by
tongues far more eloquent than his
own, would excite no admiration ; and
to bestow a tear on the ashes of Lieu-
tenant Fireshovel will still, I fear, be
beneath the great. (This pun deserves
a kick. It trickled involuntarily from
my pen; but

"Even in our ashes live our wonted fires,"
and I fear I shall die a punster.) The
public are unreasonable, and I will
not consent to bear in mind that a
cornet is in posse chrysalis of a Field-
Marshal. They are indifferent about
the progress of a career which ends in
a veteran battalion, or, like my own,
in a half-pay majority. They will not
brood over an ensign in the egg, nor
follow him with breathless eagerness
through all the perils of his chicken-
hood, even should he end in the well-
fledged Governor of a Sugar island, or
a member of the Clothing board. All
this, I say, the public will not do, and
I think you would do well to direct
your efforts and attention to the supply
of more marketable commodities than
any you can expect from me. What I
have already said, however, is matter
for your consideration, not for mine.
If you choose to fob your readers off
with dull refacciamentos, and your
readers prosper on such spare diet, I
really do not see why I should give
myself any concern about the matter.
By failing in the attempt, I, at least,
lose nothing. I have no literary cha-
racter to be jeoparded in the trial; I
am a man who trades without capital,
whom no reverse of fortune can make
worse than he was originally-a beg-
gar. But even this chance I shall
avoid. By you only can I be known
as a being of thewes and sinews, a real

We believe we have never noticed this writer before. Bating an affectation of style,` which pervades the whole of his works, we have no fault to find with his Recollections and Travels. They betray considerable graphic power, and are stamped throughout with the impress of an elegant and amiable mind. But a work more thoroughly absurd and worthless than "The Story of a Life," we never met, except from the press of Leadenhall Street. There is throughout a constant effort and straining after effect; a turgid verbosity, which is to us very tiresome and disgusting. There is, however, something pleasant in watching the strenuous efforts of a clever man to knock down his own reputation, and endeavouring, even unsuccessfully, to get himself written down an ass.

C. N.

and material man. To the world at large I shall be an airy nothing, with a name, perhaps, but certainly without local habitation; in short,

66

―― an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery."

But while I confess this, and throw the perils of the task on the shoulders most proper to bear them, I would not have you remain ignorant of, or undervalue the pain and sacrifice which a compliance with your wishes will require. You know, I am a man whose hopes have been blighted, and whose heart has been seared by disappointment. I cannot unclasp the volume of my life without pain, and feeling what a fearful world of memory is hidden in the past. Recollection cannot but awaken thoughts" that lie too deep for tears," passions which, though long buried by the ploughshare of time, are yet ever ready to spring up dragon's teeth, again to tear and agitate the soul. Think you it is possible for any man to ponder on the fears, the crimes, the follies, hopes, passions, and delights which have stirred his mortal frame,to recal the dreams of young ambition, and compare the being he might have been with the thing he is, to think on his vanished hopes, the early love on which fortune frowned, the friendships passed away, and yet feel no burning of the brain, no shuddering and shrinking of the heart? Surely he who can whistle down the wind this painful weakness of his nature, and gaze calmly on the broken links of the manifold chain with which humanity is bound to earth, is an anomaly, not a man; a being whom we may envy, but with whom we can have no fellowship.

Such penalty, my dear North, I feel to be attached to a retrospect of my life, especially that most active and spirit-stirring part of it connected with all the promise of my youth, and the not less transient aspirations of my maturer years. But even this is not all. If, along with the events of his past life, any man be led to take (what is necessarily connected with them) a calm survey of his own character and motives, he must bid adieu for ever to all sentiments of self-respect. None, I am sure, can recal and examine his thoughts and feelings, the motives even of his most approved actions, without a vivid and humiliating emotion of contempt, both for his nature

and himself. His conduct may have been without stain, but how often has he been a villain în his heart? How often has he dallied with dishonour, and treasured in his inmost soul the base suggestions of profitable infamy? Could we, by intuition, learn the thoughts of even the best and purest of men, and read the secret promptings of his spirit, in what light would he appear to us! How many bright and pleasing delusions would vanish from our eyes! At the tribunal of his own heart, Mr Wilberforce might plead guilty to some visionary rape and battery; old Coutts to having robbed the mail, or some speculative forgery of bank-bills; and Mrs Hannah More herself-chaste as unsunned snow-might be convicted of loose and immoral dalliance with some brawny cornet of the Life Guards. This scrutiny of secret motives, and contemplation of unborn delinquen cies, would do more than Luther ever did for the Reformation of Catholicism; the calendar would soon become tolerably clear; not a few interlopers of doubtful virtue would be found to have increased the musterroll of the thirty thousand virgins; the holy army of martyrs might at least be reduced to a brigade; and the legion of saints be contracted within the narrow limits of a baker's dozen. But I begin to wander.

Entertaining as I do such general views of human nature, it would be inconsistent to object to their broadest application to myself. I have never been accused of a dishonour ́able action; I have done wrong to no man to whom I was not always ready to afford fitting satisfaction. I have borne a share in seven battles, have headed a forlorn hope, and fought a duel, at six paces, with notoriously the best pistol-shot in the army, (which cost me three jawteeth, and a third of my best whisker,) and on these occasions there was detected no hurried tremor of the voice, no quailing of the eye, nor quiver of the lip; my step was firm and regular, my arm steady; and yet I do not hesitate to own I am, in my own eyes, neither a man of pure principle, nor of high courage.

Calm as in these trying circumstances I may have seemed, fear sat like a night-mare on my soul, my heart trembled like a woman's, and, amid the agonies of the

voracity of the public, that works of this contemptible description were not only generally read, but, what is more important, generally sold, and, in the absence of all military writers of competent power and knowledge, succeeded to an extensive though short-lived popularity. But those times have passed away. This blind and inordinate craving of the public appetite has been followed, as might have been expected, by a surfeit. Simpson's Commentaries" De Bello Gallico" have been subjected to the Cæsarian operation, and gutted for the trunk-makers. Works of a higher and better character have already been supplied. Lord Burghersh has published his Campaigns; the author of "Recollections of the Peninsula,"* clad in his bright and glittering panoply, has started into the field; and your own "Subaltern," approaching his task with the grace and brightness of a scholar and a gentleman, has exceedingly

"Graced his cause In speaking of himselfWhat is it then you require of me? I appeal to your cooler judgment, if it would be wise and prudent in me to follow in the wake of writers like these, to try a passage at arms with champions who have already shown such skill and address in the management of their weapons. It really does appear to me quite hopeless to expect that scenes which have already been delineated by the hand of a master should acquire any new interest from a few additional sketches from a dauber like myself.

But, in truth, my good North, how ever well they may be executed, the taste for such subjects is now considerably on the wane. No writer at this time of day can expect in his readers a sensitive participation in the perils of an out-picket, nor induce them, by any eloquence, to cherish fervent aspirations for the escape of a foraging party. They will regard with

apathy the most moving narrative of the exploits of all regimental officers, and have even not the smallest wish for a nearer view of the vie privèe of a brigade major. In vain may Captain Poker endeavour to stir up the blaze of sympathy for neglected merit; Major Tongs, were his exploits told by tongues far more eloquent than his own, would excite no admiration; and to bestow a tear on the ashes of Lieutenant Fireshovel will still, I fear, be beneath the great. (This pun deserves a kick. It trickled involuntarily from my pen; but

"Even in our ashes live our wonted-fires," and I fear I shall die a punster.) The public are unreasonable, and I will not consent to bear in mind that a cornet is in posse chrysalis of a FieldMarshal. They are indifferent about the progress of a career which ends in a veteran battalion, or, like my own, in a half-pay majority. They will not brood over an ensign in the egg, nor follow him with breathless eagerness through all the perils of his chickenhood, even should he end in the wellfledged Governor of a Sugar island, or a member of the Clothing board. All this, I say, the public will not do, and I think you would do well to direct your efforts and attention to the supply of more marketable commodities than any you can expect from me. What I have already said, however, is matter for your consideration, not for mine. If you choose to fob your readers off with dull refacciamentos, and your readers prosper on such spare diet, I really do not see why I should give myself any concern about the matter. By failing in the attempt, I, at least, lose nothing. I have no literary character to be jeoparded in the trial; I am a man who trades without capital, whom no reverse of fortune can make worse than he was originally-a beggar.

But even this chance I shall avoid. By you only can I be known as a being of thewes and sinews, a real

We believe we have never noticed this writer before. Bating an affectation of style, which pervades the whole of his works, we have no fault to find with his Recollections and Travels. They betray considerable graphic power, and are stamped throughout with the impress of an elegant and amiable mind. But a work more thoroughly absurd and worthless than "The Story of a Life," we never met, except from the press of Leadenhall Street. There is throughout a constant effort and straining after effect; a turgid verbosity, which is to us very tiresome and disgusting. There is, however, something pleasant in watching the strenuous efforts of a clever man to knock down his own reputation, and endeavouring, even unsuccessfully, to get himself written down an ass. C. N.

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A voice, a mystery." But while I confess this, and throw the perils of the task on the shoulders most proper to bear them, I would not have you remain ignorant of, or undervalue the pain and sacrifice which a compliance with your wishes will require. You know, I am a man whose hopes have been blighted, and whose heart has been seared by disappointment. I cannot unclasp the volume of my life without pain, and feeling what a fearful world of memory is hidden in the past. Recollection cannot but awaken thoughts" that lie too deep for tears," passions which, though long buried by the ploughshare of time, are yet ever ready to spring up dragon's teeth, again to tear and agitate the soul. Think you it is possible for any man to ponder on the fears, the crimes, the follies, hopes, passions, and delights which have stirred his mortal frame, to recal the dreams of young ambition, and compare the be ing he might have been with the thing he is, to think on his vanished hopes, the early love on which fortune frowned, the friendships passed away, and yet feel no burning of the brain, no shuddering and shrinking of the heart? Surely he who can whistle down the wind this painful weakness of his nature, and gaze calmly on the broken links of the manifold chain with which humanity is bound to earth, is an anomaly, not a man; a being whom we may envy, but with whom we can have no fellowship.

Such penalty, my dear North, I feel to be attached to a retrospect of my life, especially that most active and spirit-stirring part of it connected with all the promise of my youth, and the not less transient aspirations of my maturer years. But even this is not all. If, along with the events of his past life, any man be led to take (what is necessarily connected with them) a calm survey of his own character and motives, he must bid adieu for ever to all sentiments of self-respect. None, I am sure, can recal and examine his thoughts and feelings, the motives even of his most approved actions, without a vivid and humiliating emotion of contempt, both for his nature

and himself. His conduct may have been without stain, but how often has he been a villain in his heart? How often has he dallied with dishonour, and treasured in his inmost soul the base suggestions of profitable infamy? Could we, by intuition, learn the thoughts of even the best and purest of men, and read the secret promptings of his spirit, in what light would he appear to us! How many bright and pleasing delusions would vanish from our eyes! At the tribunal of his own heart, Mr Wilberforce might plead guilty to some visionary rape and battery; old Coutts to having robbed the mail, or some speculative forgery of bank-bills; and Mrs Hannah More herself-chaste as unsunned snow-might be convicted of loose and immoral dalliance with some brawny cornet of the Life Guards. This scrutiny of secret motives, and contemplation of unborn delinquencies, would do more than Luther ever did for the Reformation of Catholicism; the calendar would soon become tolerably clear; not a few interlopers of doubtful virtue would be found to have increased the musterroll of the thirty thousand virgins; the holy army of martyrs might at least be reduced to a brigade; and the legion of saints be contracted within the narrow limits of a baker's dozen. But I begin to wander.

Entertaining as I do such general views of human nature, it would be inconsistent to object to their broadest application to myself. I have never been accused of a dishonourable action; I have done wrong to no man to whom I was not always ready to afford fitting satisfaction. I have borne a share in seven battles, have headed a forlorn hope, and fought a duel, at six paces, with notoriously the best pistol-shot in the army, (which cost me three jawteeth, and a third of my best whisker,) and on these occasions there was detected no hurried tremor of the voice, no quailing of the eye, nor quiver of the lip; my step was firm and regular, my arm steady; and yet I do not hesitate to own I am, in my own eyes, neither a man of pure principle, nor of high courage. Calm as in these trying circumstances I may have seemed, fear sat like a night-mare on my soul, my heart trembled like a woman's, and, amid the agonies of the

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